An Affair I
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Was she not, still, a warrior? A nomad? One who could never be tamed? And was not Berwald, still, a warrior? A Viking? One who continues to inspire fear in lesser men? / Sweden/Hungary with background Austria/Hungary and Sweden/Norway, late 19th century.


Author's note: Sweden/Hungary with background Austria/Hungary and Sweden/Norway, late 19th century. I've just wanted to see this pairing for so long and it finally came to me how to accomplish it. Companion piece is **An Affair II**, Austria/Switzerland.

* * *

**An Affair I**

She slips easily into the private room as if she was meant to be there, the servants thinking nothing of their mistress moving through back rooms quietly. In the ballroom her loving husband was awaiting her return, speaking with fellow nations who had gathered to celebrate at a ball for their kind, thrown in honor of young Ludwig. Nearly all were there, from Europe at least, and some former colonies as well: not necessarily because of the cause of the celebration but because there were few times they could all meet in peace.

Oh Ludwig was a darling thing and Erzsébet did her best to make sure he learned only Gilbert's good traits, picking up none that she cared less for. As to the Prussian, he had taken to being kinder to her, more of a gentleman; whether it was because he had a brother or because he was growing soft with age, his need to grab up power falling away, the Hungarian did not know.

And Roderich- oh she loves him. She has loved him for centuries now and in his arms she feels safe and ladylike and pampered.

But Erzsébet doesn't want all those things. Not all the time, at least.

Another enters the darkly lit room behind her, closing the door with a quiet click and locking it. Slowly she turns to see Berwald Oxenstierna standing before her, his deep blue suit tight across his chest, barely long enough to cover the length of his body. His eyes glare at her, piercing her soul and undressing her in his mind and unsettling her with the inappropriateness of his conduct.

Which is exactly what Erzsébet wants right now.

In seconds he's upon her, grabbing her roughly and crushing her to him. His mouth demands hers (demands in a way that no one has demanded of her in decades), rough lips (for Roderich's were soft) finding their mark. Fingers twirl in her long, dark hair so unlike Berwald's, pulling just enough to hurt a little but not enough for the woman to complain.

Was she not, still, a warrior? A nomad? One who could never be tamed?

And was not Berwald, still, a warrior? A Viking? One who continues to inspire fear in lesser men?

She's shoved against a table, large hands lifting her to sit on it before spreading her legs with little romance or foreplay. Greedy blue eyes watch as Swedish hands push her many layers of skirts up before snapping to Erzsébet's face, a momentary confusion before a soft groan. For the Hungarian had yet to take to wearing undergarments beneath her many petticoats, especially when it had been made clear what options she would have this evening when her Swedish lover arrived.

Dainty, pale hands reach down to run up her thighs, Berwald watching with great joy and sexual appetite. At Erzsébet's laugh, her hair thrown wildly about by now, the whole thing a breath of fresh air from her predictable life, the Swedish kingdom claims her lips again. Both sets of hands work quickly to free him of his pants; foreplay was for their letters, not hurried moments hoping no one would find them or notice their absence.

Berwald pulls back to stroke himself, Erzsébet helping, until he's hard enough; a few fingers are inserted next in the Hungarian to stretch her, the Swede moaning at how wet she was for him already. And with that the first word is uttered in this private a space, a moan of, "Erzsébet," before Berwald pushes into her.

Nails claw at his back, the Hungarian letting out a barely-audible sigh at the feeling of being filled. She loves her husband Roderich, who is caring. She even loves her part-time lover, part-time friend Gilbert, who is teasing. And she loves sweet, young Ludwig who will one day be handsomer than both men combined.

But of all the Germanic nations, only Berwald can drive her crazy like this.

"Erzsébet," he repeats before thrusting in again, and again, and again. He's rough and hard (in more than one way) and not one for soft touches, gentle caresses. Instead he bites at the Hungarian woman's neck, at her shoulders, anywhere he can without ever daring to do so hard enough to mark. She had the other-half of her country to return to, and Berwald did as well. Does he love Lukas? Do they fuck? Erzsébet has never asked because she thinks she knows the answer, and thinking she knows is more than enough.

"Berwald." The name escapes her mouth as her muscles take on that tightening feeling, the one that meant she was getting close. That feeling that was more incredible than incredible, every sensation heightened, every little movement of the Swede inside her, his hands roughly grabbing her thighs and hips, his mouth and tongue and teeth on her skin, that much more than any other man's touch.

Too soon the wonderful tightening becomes a welcomed relief as her orgasm washes over her, the Hungarian pressing her mouth to Berwald's neck to keep from screaming. Urgent thrusts meet her obvious signs of completion, the Swede pouring himself into her with a whisper in her ear.

"My love."

* * *

In the ballroom Arthur escorts Erzsébet to Roderich's side, complaining of what mischief Alfred was starting and how Matthew just didn't have the strength of character to stop him.

"We are all strong," the Hungarian murmurs in soft English, her accent thick, "but not always against the ones closest to us."

"Hmm," Arthur agrees before leaving her to her husband, deep in conversation with another.

Chancing to look across the room, Erzsébet sees Berwald speaking with Francis. The Norwegian takes his hand as the Austrian takes hers, and their eyes break apart.


End file.
